Chapter VII: Section II (1)

In entering on this apology for _professed imitators_, I shall not be suspected of undervaluing the proper merits of _invention_, which unquestionably holds the first place in the _virtutes_ of a poet, and is that power, which, of all others, enables him to give the highest entertainment to the reader. Much less will it be thought, that I am here pleading the cause of those base and abject spirits, who have not the courage or ability to attempt any thing of themselves, and can barely make a shift, as a great poet of our own expresses it, _to creep servilely after the sense of_ some other. These I readily resign to the shame and censure, which have so justly followed them in all ages; as subscribing to the truth of that remark, “_Imitatio per se ipsa non sufficit_, vel _quia pigri est ingenii, contentum esse iis, quae sunt ab aliis inventa_.” My concern is only with those, whose talent of original genius is not disputed, but the _degree_ of strength and vigour, with which it prevails in them, somewhat lowered in the general estimation, from this imputed crime of PLAGIARISM. And, with respect to such as these, something, I conceive, may be said, not undeserving the notice of the candid reader.

1. The most universal cause, inducing _imitation_ in great writers, is, the force of early _discipline and education_. Were it true, that poets took their _descriptions and images_ immediately from common nature, one might expect, indeed, a general _similitude_ in their works, but such, as could seldom or never, in all its circumstances, amount to a strict and rigorous correspondency. The _properties_ of things are so numerous, and the _lights_ in which they shew themselves to a mind uninfluenced by former prejudices, so different, that some grace of novelty, some tincture of original beauty, would constantly infuse itself into all their delineations. But the case is far otherwise. Strong as the bent of the imagination may be to contemplate living forms, and to gaze with delight on this grand theatre of _nature_, its attention is soon taken off, and arrested, on all sides, by those infinite mirrors, and reflexions of things, which it every where meets with in the world of _imitation_. We are habituated to a survey of this _secondary and derivative nature_; as presented in the admired works of _art_, through the entire course of our education. The writings of the best poets are put into our hands, to instruct us in the knowledge of _men and things_, as soon as we are capable of apprehending them. Nay, we are taught to lisp their very _words_, in our tenderest infancy. Some quick and transient glances we cannot chuse but cast, at times, on the phænomena of living beauty; but its forms are rarely contemplated by us with diligence, but in these _mirrors_, which are the constant furniture of our schools and closets. And no wonder, were we even left to ourselves, that such should be our _proper_ choice and determination. For, by the prodigious and almost magical operations of _fancy_ on original objects, they even shew fairer, and are made to look more attractive, in these artificial representations, than in their own rude and native aspects. Thus, by the united powers of _discipline_ and _inclination_, we are almost necessitated to _see_ nature in the same _light_, and to know her only in the _dress_, in which her happier suitors and favourites first gave her to observation.

The effect of this early bias of the mind, which insensibly grows into the inveteracy of habit, needs not be insisted on. When the poet, thus tutored in the works of _imitation_, comes to address himself to _invention_, these familiar images, which he hath so often and so fondly admired, immediately step in and intercept his observation of their great _original_. Or, if he has power to hold them off, and turn his eye directly on the _primary object_, he still inclines to view it only on that side and in those _lights_, in which he has been accustomed to study it. Nor let it be said, that this is the _infirmity_, only, of weak minds. It belongs to our very natures, and the utmost vigour of genius is no security against it. _Custom_, in this as in every thing else, moulds, at pleasure, the soft and ductile matter of a _minute_ spirit, and by degrees can even bend the elastic metal of the _greatest_.

And if the force of habit can thus determine a writer knowingly, to _imitation_, it cannot be thought strange, that it should frequently carry him into _resemblance_, when himself perhaps is not aware of it. Great readers, who have their memories fraught with the stores of ancient and modern poetry, unavoidably employ the _sentiments_, and sometimes the very _words_, of other writers, without any distinct remembrance of them, or so much as the suspicion of having seen them. At the least, their general cast of thinking or turn of expression will be much affected by them. For the most original writer as certainly takes a _tincture_ from the authors in which he has been most conversant; as water, from the beds of earths or minerals, it hath happened to run over. Especially such authors, as are studied and even got by heart by us in our early youth, leave a lasting impression, which is hardly ever effaced out of the mind. Hence a certain constrained and unoriginal air, in some degree or other, in every genius, throughly disciplined by a _course of learned education_. Which, by the way, leads to a question, not very absurd in itself, however it may pass with most readers for paradoxical, viz. “_Whether the usual forms of learning be not rather injurious to the true poet, than really assisting to him?_” It should seem to be so for a _natural reason_. For the faculty of _invention_, as all our other powers, is much improved and strengthened by exercise. And great reading prevents this, by demanding the perpetual exercise of the _memory_. Thus the mind becomes not only indisposed, but, for want of use, really unqualified, to turn itself to other views, than such as habitual recollection easily presents to it. And this, I am persuaded, hath been the case with many a fine genius, and especially with _one_ of our own country[34]; who, as appears from some original efforts in the sublime allegorical way, had no want of natural talents for the greater poetry; which yet were so restrained and disabled by his constant and superstitious study of the old classics, that he was, in fact, but a very ordinary poet.

2. But were early _habit_ of less power to incline the mind to _imitation_, than it really is, yet the high hand of _authority_ would compel it. For the first originals in the several species of poetry, like the Autocthones of old, were deemed to have come into the world by a kind of miracle. They were perfect prodigies, at least reputed so by the admiring multitude, from their first appearance. So that their authority, in a short time, became sacred; and succeeding writers were obliged, at the hazard of their fame, and as they dreaded the charge of a presumptuous and _prophane libertinism_ in poetry, to take them for their guides and models. Which is said even without the licence of a figure; at least of _one_ of them; whom Cicero calls _the fountain and origin of all_ DIVINE _institutions_[35]; and another, of elder and more reverend estimation, pronounces to be ὁ θεὸς καὶ θεῶν προφήτης[36]·

And what is here observed of the _influence_ of these master spirits, whom the admiration of antiquity hath placed at the head of the poetic world, will, with some allowance, hold also, of _that_ of later, though less original writers, whose uncommon merits have given them a distinguished rank in it.

3. _Next_, (as it usually comes to pass in other instances) what was, at first, imposed by the rigour of _authority_, soon grew respectable in _itself_, and was chosen for its own sake, as a _virtue_, which deserved no small commendation. For, when sober and enlightened criticism began to inspect, at leisure, these miracles of early invention, it presently acknowledged them for the _best_, as well as the most _ancient_, poetic models, and accordingly recommended, or more properly enjoined them by rule, to the imitation of all ages. The effect of this criticism was clearly seen in the works of all succeeding poets in the _same_ language. But, when a new and different one was to be furnished with fresh _models_, it became much more conspicuous. For, besides the same or a still higher veneration of their _inventions_, which the distance of place and time insensibly procured to them, the grace of _novelty_, which they would appear to have in another _language_, was, now, a further inducement to copy them. Hence we find it to be the utmost pride of the _Roman_ writers, such I mean as came the nearest to them in the divinity of their genius, to follow the practice, and emulate the virtues, of the _Grecian_.

_Libera per vacuum posui vestigia princeps,
Non aliena meo pressi pede_—

says _one_ of the best of those writers, who yet was only treading in the _footsteps_ of his Grecian masters.

But _another_ was less reserved, and seemed desirous of being taken notice of, as an express _imitator_, without so much as laying in his claim to this sort of originality, in a new language—in multis versibus Virgilius fecit—non surripiendi causâ, sed _palam_ imitandi, _hoc animo ut vellet agnosci_. _Sen. Suasor._ III.

And, on the revival of these arts in later times and more barbarous languages, the same spirit appeared again, or rather superior honours were paid to successful _imitation_. So that what a polite French writer declares on this head is, now, become the fixed opinion of the learned in all countries. “C’est même donner une grace à ses ouvrages, que de les orner de fragmens antiques. Des vers d’Horace et de Virgile bien traduits, et mis en œuvre à propos dans un poëme François, y font le même effet que les statuës antiques font dans la gallerie de Versailles. Les lecteurs retrouvent avec plaisir, sous une nouvelle forme, la pensée, qui leur plût autrefois en Latin[37].”

It should, further, be added, that this praise of borrowing from the originals of _Greece_ and _Rome_ is now extended to the imitation of great _modern_ authors. Every body applauds this practice, where the imitation is of approved writers in _different_ languages. And even in the _same_ languages, when this liberty is taken with the most ancient and venerable, it is not denied to have its _grace_ and merit.

4. But, besides these several incitements, _similarity of genius_, alone, will, almost necessarily determine a writer to the studious emulation of some other. For, though it is with the _minds_, as the _faces_ of men, that no two are exactly and in every feature alike; yet the general cast of their genius, as well as the air and turn of the countenance, will frequently be very _similar_ in different persons. When two such spirits approach, they run together with eagerness and rapidity: the instinctive bias of the mind towards _imitation_ being now quickened by _passion_. This is chiefly said in respect of that uniformity of _style and manner_, which, whenever we observe it in two writers, we almost constantly charge to the account of _imitation_. Indeed, where the resemblance holds to the last degree of _minuteness_, or where the _peculiarities_, only, of the model are taken, there is ground enough for this suspicion. For every original genius, however consonant, in the main, to any other, has still some distinct marks and characters of his own, by which he may be distinguished; and to copy _peculiarities_, when there is no appearance of the same original spirit, which gave birth to them, is manifest affectation. But the question is put of such, whose _manner_ hath only a _general_, though strong, resemblance to that of some other, and whose true genius is above the suspicion of falling into the trap of what Horace happily calls, EXEMPLAR VITIIS IMITABILE. And of these it is perhaps juster to say, that a previous correspondency of _character_ impelled to _imitate_, than that imitation itself produced that correspondency of _character_. At least (which is all my concern it present) it will be allowed to incline a writer strongly to _imitation_; and where a congenial spirit appears to provoke him to it, a candid critic will not be forward to turn this circumstance to the dishonour of his _invention_.

5. Lastly, were every other consideration out of the way, yet, oftentimes, the _very nature of the poet’s theme_ would oblige him to a diligent _imitation_ of preceding writers. I do not mean this of such subjects, as suggest and produce a necessary conformity of description, whether purposely intended or not. This hath been fully considered. But my meaning is, that, when the greater provinces of poetry have been, already, occupied, and its most interesting scenes exhausted; or, rather, their application to the uses of poetry determined by great masters, it becomes, thenceforward, unavoidable for succeeding writers to draw from their sources. The law of probability exacts this at their hands; and one may almost affirm, that to _copy_ them closely is to paint after _nature_. I shall explain myself by an instance or two.

With regard to the religious opinions and ceremonies of the Pagan world, the writings of Homer, it is said and very truly, were “_the standard of private belief, and the grand directory of public worship_[38].” Whatever liberty might have been taken with the rites and gods of Paganism before his time, yet, when he had given an exact description of _both_, and had formed, to the satisfaction of all, the established religion into a kind of _system_, succeeding poets were obliged, of course, to take their theology from him; and could no longer be thought to write _justly and naturally_ of their Gods, than whilst their _descriptions_ conformed to the _authentic_ delineations of _Homer_. His relations, and even the _fictions_, which his genius had raised on the popular creed of elder Paganism, were now the proper archetype of all _religious representations_. And to speak of _these_, as given _truly and originally_, is, in effect, to say, that they were borrowed or rather transcribed from the page of _that poet_.

And the same may be observed of _historical facts_, as of _religious traditions_. For not unfrequently, where the subject is taken from authentic history, the authority of a preceding poet is so prevalent, as to render _any_ account of the matter improbable, which is not fashioned and regulated after his ideas. A succeeding writer is neither at liberty to relate matters of fact, which no one thinks _credible_, nor to _feign_ afresh for himself. In this case, again, all that the most original genius has to do, is to _imitate_. We have been told that the _second book of the_ AENEIS was translated from Pisander[39]. Another thinks, it was taken from the LITTLE ILIAD[40]. Or, why confine him to either of these, when METRODORUS, SYAGRUS, HEGESIANAX, ARATUS, and others, wrote poems on _the taking_ of TROY? But granting the poet (as is most likely) to have had these originals before him, what shall we infer from it? Only this, that he took his principal facts and circumstances (as we see he was obliged to do for the sake of _probability_) from these writers. And why should this be thought a greater crime in him, than in POLYGNOTUS; who, in his famous picture on this subject, was under the necessity, and for the same reason, of collecting his _subject-matter_ from several poets[41]?

It follows, from these considerations, that we cannot justify ourselves in thinking so hardly, as we commonly do, of the class of _imitators_; which is, now, by the concurrence of various circumstances, become the necessary character of almost all poets. Nor let it be any concern to the _true_ poet, that it is so. For _imitations_, when real and confessed, may still have their merit; nay, I presume to add, sometimes a _greater_ merit, than the very originals on which they are formed: And, with the reader’s leave (though I am hastening to a conclusion of this long discourse), I will detain him, one moment, with the reasons of this opinion.

After all the praises that are deservedly given to the novelty of a _subject_, or the beauty of _design_, the supreme merit of poetry, and that which more especially immortalizes the writers of it, lies in the _execution_. It is thus that the poets of the Augustan age have not so properly excelled, as discredited, all the productions of their predecessors; and that those of the age of Louis XIV^{th} not only obscure, but will in process of time obliterate, the fame and memory of the elder French writers. Or, to see the effect of masterly execution in single instances, hence it is, that Lucilius not only yields to Horace, but would be almost forgotten by us, if it had not been for the honour his imitator has done him. And nobody needs be told the advantage which Pope is likely to have over all our older satirists, excellent as some of them are, and more entitled than he to the honour of being inventors. We have here, then, an established _fact_. The first essays of genius, though ever so original, are overlooked; while the later productions of men, who had never risen to such distinction but by means of the very originals they disgrace, obtain the applause and admiration of all ages.

The solution of this _fact_, so notorious, and, at the same time, so contrary, in appearance, to the honours which men are disposed to pay to original invention, will open the mystery of that matter we are now considering.

The faculties, or, as we may almost term them, the magic powers, which _ope the palace of eternity_ to great writers, are a _confirmed judgment_, and _ready invention_.

Now the _first_ is seen to most advantage, in selecting, out of all preceding stores, the particulars that are most suited to the nature of a poet’s work, and the ends of poetry. When true genius has exhausted, as it were, the various _manners_, in which a work of art may be conducted, and the various _topics_ which may be employed to adorn it, _judgment_ is in its province, or rather sovereignty, when it determines which of all these is to be preferred, and which neglected. In this sense, as well as others, it will be most true, _Quòd artis pars magna contineatur imitatione_.

Nay, by means of this discernment, the very _topic_ or method, which had no effect, or perhaps an ill one, under one management, or in one situation, shall charm every reader, in another. And by force of _judging right_, the copier shall almost lose his title, and become an inventor:

Tantum _de medio_ sumptis accedit honoris.

But imitation, though it give most room to the display of judgment, does not exclude the exercise of the other faculty, _invention_. Nay, it requires the most dextrous, perhaps the most difficult, exertion of this faculty. For consider how the case stands. When we speak of an _imitator_, we do not speak, as the poet says, of

A barren-spirited fellow, one who feeds
On abject orts, and imitations—

but of one, who, in aiming to be like, contends also to be equal to his original. To attain to this _equality_, it is not enough that he select the best of those stores which are ready prepared to his hand (for thus he would be rather a skilful borrower, than a successful imitator); but, in taking something from others, he must add much of his own: he must improve the _expression_, where it is defective or barely passable: he must throw fresh lights of fancy on a common _image_: he must strike out new hints from a vulgar _sentiment_. Thus, he will complete his original, where he finds it _imperfect_: he will supply its _omissions_: he will emulate, or rather surpass, its highest _beauties_. Or, in despair of this last, we shall find him taking a different _route_; giving us an equivalent in a beauty of another kind, which yet he extracts from some latent intimation of his author; or, where his purpose requires the very same representation, giving it a new form, perhaps a nobler, by the turn of his application.

But all this requires not only the truest judgment, but the most delicate operation of inventive genius. And, where they both meet in a supreme degree, we sometimes find an admired original, not only excelled by his imitator, but almost discredited. Of which, if there were no other, the sixth book of Virgil, I mean taking it in the light of an _imitation_, is an immortal instance.

Thus much I could not forbear saying on the _merit_ of successful imitation. As to the _necessity_ of the thing, hear the apology of a great Poet, for himself. “All that is left us, says this original writer, is to recommend our productions by the imitation of the ancients: and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have been the most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good sense, must have been common sense in all times; and what we call learning is but the knowledge of our predecessors. Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients, may as well say, our faces are not our own, because they are like our fathers: and indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us so[42].”

He adds, “_I fairly confess, that I have served myself all I could by reading_:” where the good sense of the _practice_, is as conspicuous, as the ingenuity, so becoming the greatness of his character, in _confessing_ it. For, when a writer, who, as we have seen, is driven by so many powerful motives to the imitation of preceding models, revolts against them all, and determines, at any rate, to be _original_, nothing can be expected but an aukward straining in every thing. _Improper method_, _forced conceits_, and _affected expression_, are the certain issue of such obstinacy. The business is to be _unlike_; and this he may very possibly be, but at the expence of graceful ease and true beauty. For he puts himself, at best, into a convulsed, unnatural state; and it is well, if he be not forced, beside his purpose, to leave _common sense_, as well as his _model_, behind him. Like one who would break loose from an impediment, which holds him fast; the very endeavour to get clear of it throws him into _uneasy attitudes_, and _violent contorsions_; and, if he gain his liberty at last, it is by an _effort_, which carries him much further than the _point_ he would wish to stop at.

And, that the reader may not suspect me of asserting this without experience, let me exemplify what has been here said in the case of a very eminent person, who, with all the advantages of art and nature that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by this single error. The person I mean was Sir WILLIAM D’AVENANT; whose _Gondibert_ will remain a perpetual monument of the mischiefs, which must ever arise from this affectation of originality in lettered and polite poets.

The great author, when he projected his plan of an heroic poem, was so far from intending to steer his course by _example_, that he sets out, in his preface, with upbraiding the followers of Homer, as a base and timorous crew of _coasters_, who would not adventure to launch forth on the vast ocean of invention. For, speaking of this poet, he observes, “that, as sea marks are chiefly used to coasters, and serve not those who have the ambition of discoverers, that love to sail in untried seas; so he hath rather proved a guide for those, whose satisfied wit will not venture beyond the track of others; than to them, who affect a new and remote way of thinking; who esteem it a deficiency and meanness of mind, to stay and depend upon the authority of example[43].”

And, afterwards, he professedly makes his own merit to consist in “an endeavour to lead truth through unfrequented and new ways, and from the most remote shades; by representing nature, though not in an affected, yet in an unusual dress[44].” These were the principles he went upon: let us now attend to the success of his endeavours.

The METHOD of his work is defective in many respects. To instance in the two following. Observing the large compass of the ancient epic, for which he saw no cause in nature, and which, he supposed, had been followed merely from a blind deference to the authority of the first model, he resolved to construct an heroic poem on the narrower and, as he conceived, juster plan of the dramatic poets. And, because it was their practice, for the purpose of _raising the passions_ by a close accelerated plot, and for the convenience of _representation_, to conclude their subject in _five acts_, he affects to restrain himself within the same limits. The event was, that, cutting himself off, by this means, from the opportunity of digressive ornaments, which contribute so much to the pomp of the epic poetry; and, what is more essential, from the advantage of the most gradual and circumstantiated narration, which gives an air of _truth and reality_ to the fable, he failed in accomplishing the proper _end_ of this poem, ADMIRATION; _produced_ by a grandeur of design and variety of important incidents, and _sustained_ by all the energy and minute particularity of description.

2. It was essential to the ancient epos to raise and exalt the fable by the intervention of _supernatural agency_. This, again, the poet mistook for the prejudice of the affected imitators of Homer, “who had so often led them into heaven and hell, till, by conversation with gods and ghosts, they sometimes deprive us of those natural probabilities in story, which are instructive to human life[45].” Here then he would needs be original; and so, by recording only the affairs of men, hath fairly omitted a necessary part of the epic plan, and that which, of all others, had given the greatest state and magnificence to its construction. Yet here, to do him justice, one thing deserves our commendation. It had been the way of the Italian romancers, who were at that time the best poets, to run very much into prodigy and enchantment. “Not only to exceed the _work_, but also the _possibility_ of nature, they would have impenetrable armors, inchanted castles, invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and a thousand other such things, which are easily feigned by them that dare[46].” These conceits, he rightly saw, had too slender a foundation in the serious belief of his age to justify a relation of them. And had he only dropped these, his conduct had been without blame. But, as it is the weakness of human nature, the observation of this extreme determined him to the other, of admitting nothing, however well established in the general opinion, that was _supernatural_.

And as here he did too much, so in another respect, it may be observed, he did too little. The romancers, before spoken of, had carried their notions of _gallantry_ in ordinary life, as high, as they had done those of _preternatural agency_, in their marvellous fictions. Yet here this original genius, who was not to be held by the shackles of superstition, suffered himself to be entrapped in the silken net of _love and honour_. And so hath adopted, in his draught of _characters_, that elevation of sentiment which a change of manners could not but dispose the reader to regard as _fantastic_ in the Gothic romance, at the same time that he rejected what had the truest grace in the ancient epic, a _sober intermixture of religion_.

The _execution_ of his poem was answerable to the general _method_. His SENTIMENTS are frequently forced, and so tortured by an affectation of wit, that every stanza hath the air of an epigram. And the EXPRESSION, in which he cloaths them, is so quaint and figurative, as turns his description almost into a continued riddle.

Such was the effect of a studious affectation of _originality_ in a writer, who, but for this misconduct, had been in the first rank of our poets. His endeavour was to keep clear of the models, in which his youth had been instructed, and which he perfectly understood. And in this indeed he succeeded. But the success lost him the possession of, what his large soul appears to have been full of, a true and permanent glory; which hath ever arisen, and can only arise, from the unambitious simplicity of nature; _contemplated_ in her own proper form, or, by _reflexion_, in the faithful mirror of those very models, he so much dreaded.

In short, from what hath been here advanced, and especially as confirmed by so uncommon an instance, I think myself entitled to come at once to this _general conclusion_, which they, who have a comprehensive view of the history of letters, in their several periods, and a just discernment to estimate their state in them, will hardly dispute with me, “that, though many causes concur to produce a thorough degeneracy of taste in any country; yet the _principal_, ever, is, THIS ANXIOUS DREAD OF IMITATION IN POLITE AND CULTIVATED WRITERS.”

And, if such be the case, among the other uses of this Essay, it may perhaps serve for a seasonable admonition to the poets of our time, to relinquish their vain hopes of _originality_, and turn themselves to a stricter imitation of the best models. I say, a _seasonable admonition_; for the more polished a nation is, and the more generally these models are understood, the greater danger there is, as was now observed, of running into that worst of literary faults, _affectation_. But, to stimulate their endeavours to this practice, the judgment of the public should first be set right; and their readers prepared to place a just value upon it. In this respect, too, I would willingly contribute, in some small degree, to the service of letters. For the poet, whose object is _fame_, will always adapt himself to the humour of those, who confer it. And till the public taste be reduced, by sober criticism, to a just standard, strength of genius will only enable a writer to pervert it still further, by a too successful compliance with its vicious expectations.

A

DISSERTATION

ON

THE MARKS OF IMITATION.

DISSERTATION IV.

ON

THE MARKS OF IMITATION.

TO MR. MASON.

I have said, in the discourse on POETICAL IMITATION, “that coincidencies of a certain _kind_, and in a certain _degree_, cannot fail to convict a writer of Imitation[47].” You are curious, my friend, to know what these _coincidencies_ are, and have thought that an attempt to point them out would furnish an useful Supplement to what I have written on this subject. But the just execution of this design would require, besides a careful examination of the workings of the human mind, an exact scrutiny of the most original and most imitative writers. And, with all your partiality for me, can you, in earnest, think me capable of fulfilling the _first_ of these conditions; Or, if I were, do you imagine that, at this time o’ day, I can have the leisure to perform the _other_? My younger years, indeed, have been spent in turning over those authors which young men are most fond of; and among these I will not disown that the Poets of ancient and modern fame have had their full share in my affection. But you, who love me so well, would not wish me to pass more of my life in these flowery regions; which though you may yet wander in without offence, and the rather as you wander in them with so pure a mind and to so moral a purpose, there seems no decent pretence for me to loiter in them any longer.

Yet in saying this I would not be thought to assume that severe character; which, though sometimes the garb of reason, is oftener, I believe, the mask of dulness, or of something worse. No, I am too sensible to the charms, nay to the uses of your profession, to affect a contempt for it. The great Roman said well, _Haec studia adolescentiam alunt; senectutem oblectant_. We make a full meal of them in our youth. And no philosophy requires so perfect a mortification as that we should wholly abstain from them in our riper years. But should we invert the observation; and take this light food not as the refreshment only, but as the proper _nourishment_ of Age; such a name as Cicero’s, I am afraid, would be wanting, and not easily found, to justify the practice.

Let us own then, on a greater authority than His, “That every thing is beautiful in its season.” The Spring hath its _buds and blossoms_: But, as the year runs on, you are not displeased, perhaps, to see them fall off; and would certainly be disappointed not to find them, in due time, succeeded by those _mellow hangings_, the poet somewhere speaks of.

I could alledge still graver reasons. But I would only say, in one word, that your friend has had his share in these amusements. I may recollect with pleasure, but must never live over again

Pieriosque dies, et amantes carmina somnos.

Yet something, you insist, is to be done; and, if it amount to no more than a specimen or slight sketch, such as my memory, or the few notes I have by me, would furnish, the design, you think, is not totally to be relinquished.

I understand the danger of gratifying you on these terms. Yet, whatever it be, I have no power to excuse myself from any attempt, by which, you tell me at least, I may be able to gratify you. I will do my best, then, to draw together such observations, as I have sometimes thought, in reading the poets, most material for the certain discovery of _Imitations_. And I address them to YOU, not only as you are the properest judge of the subject; you, who understand so well in what manner the Poets are us’d to imitate each other, and who yourself so finely imitate the best of them; But as I would give you this small proof of my affection, and have perhaps the ambition of publishing to the world in this way the entire friendship, that subsists between us.

You tell me I have not succeeded amiss in explaining the difficulty of detecting _Imitations_. The materials of poetry, you own, lie so much in common amongst all writers, and the several ways of employing them are so much under the controul of common sense, that writings will in many respects be similar, where there is no thought or design of _Imitating_. I take advantage of this concession to conclude from it, That we can seldom pronounce with certainty of Imitations without some external proof to assist us in the discovery. You will understand me to mean by these _external proofs_, the previous knowledge we have, from considerations not respecting the _Nature_ of the work itself, of the writer’s _ability_ or _inducements_ to imitate. Our first enquiry, then, will be, concerning the _Age_, _Character_, and _Education_ of the supposed Imitator.

We can determine with little certainty, how far the principal Greek writers have been indebted to Imitation. We trace the waters of Helicon no higher than to their source. And we acquiesce, with reason, in the device of the old painter, you know of, who somewhat rudely indeed, but not absurdly, drew the figure of Homer with a fountain streaming out of his mouth, and the other poets watering at it.

Hither, as to their fountain, other Stars
Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.

The Greek writers then were, or, for any thing we can say, might be Original.

But we can rarely affirm this of any other. And the reason is plain. When a taste for letters prevailed in any country, if it arose at first from the efforts of original thinking, it was immediately cherished and cultivated by the study of the old writers. You are too well acquainted with the progress of ancient and modern wit to doubt of this fact. Rome adorned itself in the spoils of Greece. And both assisted in dressing up the later European poetry. What else do you find in the Italian or French Wits, but the old matter, worked over again; only presented to us in a new form, and embellished perhaps with a conceit or two of mere modern invention?

But the English, you say, or rather your fondness for your Masters leads you to suppose, are original thinkers. ’Tis true, Nature has taken a pleasure to shew us what she could do, by the production of ONE Prodigy. But the rest are what we admire them for, not indeed without Genius, perhaps with a larger share of it than has fallen to the lot of others, yet directly and chiefly by the discipline of art and the helps of imitation.

The golden times of the English Poetry were, undoubtedly, the reigns of our two Queens. Invention was at its height, in the _one_; and Correctness, in the _other_. In _both_, the manners of a court refin’d, without either breaking or corrupting the spirit of our poets. But do you forget that ELIZABETH read Greek and Latin almost as easily as our Professors? And can you doubt that what she knew so well, would be known, admired, and imitated by every other? Or say, that the writers of her time were, some of them, ignorant enough of the _learned_ languages to be inventors; can you suppose, from what you know of the fashion of that age, that their fancies would not be sprinkled, and their wits refreshed by the essences of the Italian poetry?

I scarcely need say a word of our OTHER Queen, whose reign was unquestionably the æra of classic imitation and of classic taste. Even they, who had never been as far as Greece or Italy, to warm their imaginations or stock their memories, might do both to a tolerable degree in France; which, though it bowed to our country’s arms, had almost the ascendant in point of letters.

I mention these things only to put you in mind that hardly _one_ of our poets has been in a condition to do without, or certainly be above, the suspicion of learned imitation. And the observation is so true, that even in this our age, when good letters, they say, are departing from us, the Greek or Roman stamp is still visible in every work of genius, that has taken with the public. Do you think one needed to be told in the title-page, that a late DRAMA, or some later ODES were formed on the ancient model?

The drift of all this, you will say, is to overturn the former discourse; for that now I pretend, every degree of likeness to a preceding writer is an argument of imitation. Rather, if you please, conclude that, in my opinion, every degree of likeness is exposed to the _suspicion_ of imitation. To convert this suspicion into a proof, it is not enough to say, that a writer _might_, but that his circumstances make it plain or probable at least, that he _did_, imitate.

Of these _circumstances_ then, the _first_ I should think deserving our attention, is the AGE in which the writer lived. One should know if it were an age addicted to much study, and in which it was creditable for the best writers to make a shew of their reading. Such especially was the age succeeding to that memorable æra, the revival of letters in these western countries. The fashion of the time was to interweave as much of ancient wit as possible in every new work. Writers were so far from affecting to think and speak in their own way, that it was their pride to make the admired ancient think and speak for them. This humour continued very long, and in some sort even still continues: with this difference indeed, that, then, the ancients were introduced to do the honours, since, to do the drudgery of the entertainment. But several causes conspired to carry it to its height in England about the beginning of the last century. You may be sure, then, the writers of that period abound in imitations. The best poets boasted of them as their sovereign excellence. And you will easily credit, for instance, that B. Jonson was a servile imitator, when you find him on so many occasions little better than a painful translator.

I foresee the occasion I shall have, in the course of this letter, to weary you with citations: and would not therefore go out of my way for them. Yet, amidst a thousand instances of this sort in Jonson, the following, I fancy, will entertain you. The Latin verses, you know, are of Catullus.

Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,
Ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro,
Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber,
Multi illum pueri, multæ optavere puellæ.
Idem, quum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,
Nulli illum pueri, nullæ optavere puellæ.

It came in Jonson’s way, in one of his masks, to translate this passage; and observe with what industry he has secured the sense, while the spirit of his author escapes him.

Look, how a flower that close in closes grows,
Hid from rude cattle, bruised with no plows,
Which th’ air doth stroke, sun strengthen, show’rs shoot high’r,
It many youths, and many maids desire;
The same, when cropt by cruel hand, is wither’d,
No youths at all, no maidens have desir’d.

—It was not thus, you remember, that Ariosto and Pope have translated these fine verses. But to return to our purpose:

To this consideration of the _Age_ of a writer, you may add, if you please, that of his EDUCATION. Though it might not, in general, be the fashion to affect learning, the habits acquired by a particular writer might dispose him to do so. What was less esteemed by the enthusiasts of Milton’s time (of which however he himself was one of the greatest) than prophane or indeed any kind of learning? Yet we, who know that his youth was spent in the study of the best writers in every language, want but little evidence to convince us that his great genius did not disdain to stoop to imitation. You assent, I dare say, to Dryden’s compliment, though it be an invidious one, “That no man has so copiously translated Homer’s Grecisms, and the Latin elegancies of Virgil.” Nay, don’t you remember, the other day, that we were half of a mind to give him up for a shameless plagiary, chiefly because we were sure he had been a great reader.

But no good writer, it will be said, has flourished out of a learned age, or at least without some tincture of learning. It may be so. Yet every writer is not disposed to make the most of these advantages. What if we pay some regard then to the CHARACTER of the writer? A poet, enamoured of himself, and who sets up for a great inventive genius, thinks much to profit by the sense of his predecessors, and even when he steals, takes care to dissemble his thefts, and to conceal them as much as possible. You know I have instanced in such a poet in Sir _William D’Avenant_. In detecting the imitations of such a writer, one must then proceed with some caution. But what if our concern be with _one_, whose modesty leads him to revere the sense and even the expression of approved authors, whose taste enables him to select the finest passages in their works, and whose judgment determines him to make a free use of them? Suppose we know all this from common fame, and even from his own confession; would you scruple to call that an _imitation_ in him, which in the other might have passed for _resemblance_ only?

As the character is amiable, you will be pleased to hear me own, there are many modern poets to whom it belongs. Perhaps, the first that occurred to my thoughts was Mr. Addison. But the observation holds of others, and of _one_, in particular, very much his superior in true genius. I know not whether you agree with me, that the famous line in the _Essay on Man_;

“An honest man’s the noblest work of God,”

is taken from Plato’s, Πάντων ἱερώτατόν ἐστιν ἄνθρωπος ὁ ἀγαθός. But I am sure you will that the still more famous lines, which shallow men repeat without understanding,

“For modes of Faith let graceless zealots fight,
His, can’t be wrong whose life is in the right:”

are but copied, though with vast improvement in the force and turn of expression, from the excellent and, let it be no disparagement to him to say, from the orthodox Mr. Cowley. The poet is speaking of his friend CRASHAW.

“His Faith perhaps in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.”

Mr. Pope, who found himself in the same circumstances with Crashaw, and had suffered no doubt from the like uncharitable constructions of _graceless zeal_, was very naturally tempted to adopt this candid sentiment, and to give it the further heightening of his own spirited expression.

Let us see then how far we are got in this inquiry. We may say of the old Latin poets, that they all came out of the Greek schools. It is as true of the moderns in this part of the world, that they, in general, have had their breeding in both the Greek and Latin. But when the question is of any particular writer, how far and in what instances you may presume on his being a professed imitator, much will depend on the certain knowledge you have of his _Age_, _Education_, and _Character_. When all these circumstances meet in one man, as they have done in others, but in none perhaps so eminently as in B. Jonson, wherever you find an acknowledged likeness, you will do him no injustice to call it _imitation_.

Yet all this, you say, comes very much short of what you require of me. You want me to specify those peculiar considerations, and even to reduce them into rule, from which one may be authorised, in any instance to pronounce of imitations. It is not enough, you pretend, to say of any passage in a celebrated poet, that it most probably was taken from some other. In your extreme jealousy for the credit of your order, you call upon me to shew the distinct marks which convict him of this commerce.

In a word, You require me to turn to the poets; to gather a number of those passages I call Imitations; and to point to the _circumstances_ in each that prove them to be so. I attend you with pleasure in this amusing search. It is not material, I suppose, that we observe any strict method in our ramblings. And yet we will not wholly neglect it.

Perhaps then we shall find undoubted marks of Imitation, both in the SENTIMENT, and EXPRESSION of great writers.

To begin with such considerations as are most GENERAL.

I. An identity of the _subject-matter_ of poetry is no sure evidence of Imitation: and least of all, perhaps, in natural description. Yet where the _local_ peculiarities of nature are to be described, there an exact conformity of the matter will evince an imitation.

Descriptive poets have ever been fond of lavishing all the riches of their fancy on the _Spring_. But the appearances of this _prime of the year_ are so diversified with the climate, that descriptions of it, if taken directly from nature, must needs be very different. The Greek and Latin, and, since them, the Provencial poets, when they insist, as they always do, on the indulgent softness of this season, its _genial dews_ and _fostering breezes_, speak nothing but what is agreeable to their own experience and feeling.

It ver; et Venus; et Veneris praenuntius antè
Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus vestigia propter:
Flora quibus mater praespergens antè viaï
Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.

Venus, or the spirit of love, is represented by those poets as brooding o’er this delicious season;

Rura foecundat voluptas: rura VENEREM sentiunt.
Ipsa gemmas purpurantem pingit annum floribus:
Ipsa surgentis papillas de Favonî spiritu
Urguet in toros tepentes; ipsa roris lucidi, &c.

and a great deal more to the same purpose, which every one recollects in the old classic and in the Provencial poets.

But when we hear this language from the more Northern, and particularly our English bards, who perhaps are shivering with the blasts of the North-east, at the very time their imagination would warm itself with these notions, one is certain this cannot be the effect of _observation_, but of a sportful fancy; enchanted by the native loveliness of these exotic images, and charmed by the secret insensible power of _imitation_.

And to shew the certainty of this conclusion, Shakespear, we may observe, who had none of this classical or Provencial bias on his mind, always describes, not a Greek, or Italian, or Provencial, but an English Spring; where we meet with many unamiable characters; and, among the rest, instead of Zephyr or Favonius, we have the bleak North-east, that _nips the blooming infants of the Spring_.

But there are other obvious examples. In Cranmer’s prophetic speech, at the end of HENRY VIII. when the poet makes him say of Queen Elizabeth, that,

“In her days ev’ry man shall eat with safety
Under his own vine what he plants.”

and of King James, that,

“He shall flourish,
And, like a mountain Cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him”—

It is easy to see that his _Vine_ and _Cedar_ are not of English growth, but transplanted from Judæa. I do not mention this as an impropriety in the poet, who, for the greater solemnity of his prediction, and even from a principle of decorum, makes his Arch-bishop fetch his imagery from Scripture. I only take notice of it as a certain argument that the imagery was not his own, that is, not suggested by his own observation of nature.

The case you see, in these instances, is the same as if an English landskip-painter should choose to decorate his Scene with an Italian sky. The Connoisseur would say, he had copied this particular from Titian, and not from Nature. I presume then to give it for a certain note of Imitation, _when the properties of one clime are given to another_.

II. You will draw the same conclusion whenever you find “The Genius of one _people_ given to another.”

1. Plautus gives us the following true picture of the Greek manners:

—In hominum aetate multa eveniunt hujusmodi—
Irae interveniunt, redeunt rursum in gratiam,
Verùm irae siquae fortè eveniunt hujusmodi,
Inter eos rursum si reventum in gratiam est,
Bis tanto amici sunt inter se, quàm prius.
AMPHYT. A. III. S. 2.

You are better acquainted with the modern Italian writers than I am; but if ever you find any of them transferring this placability of temper into an eulogy of his countrymen, conclude without hesitation, that the sentiment is taken.

2. The late Editor of Jonson’s works observes very well the impropriety of leaving a trait of Italian manners in his _Every man in his humour_, when he fitted up that Play with English characters. Had the scene been laid originally in England, and that _trait_ been given us, it had convicted the poet of _Imitation_.

3. This attention to the genius of a people will sometimes shew you, that the _form_ of composition, as well as particular sentiments, comes from Imitation. An instance occurs to me as I am writing. The Greeks, you know, were great haranguers. So were the ancient Romans, but in a less degree. One is not surprized therefore that their historians abound in set speeches; which, in their hands, become the finest parts of their works. But when you find modern writers indulging in this practice of speech-making, you may guess from what source the habit is derived. Would Machiavel, for instance, as little of a Scholar as, they say, he was, have adorned his fine history of Florence with so many harangues, if the classical bias, imperceptibly, it may be, to himself, had not hung on his mind?

Another example is remarkable. You have sometimes wondered how it has come to pass that the moderns delight so much in _dialogue-writing_, and yet that so very few have succeeded in it. The proper answer to the first part of your enquiry will go some way towards giving you satisfaction as to the last. The practice is not original, has no foundation in the manners of modern times. It arose from the excellence of the Greek and Roman dialogues, which was the usual form in which the ancients chose to deliver their sentiments on any subject.